


it's love's illusions I recall

by impossiblewanderings



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Richard Curtis inspired, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle AU - Freeform, Rumbelle Secret Santa, and pieced back together, but there is always hope, imperfectly perhaps, in which a life is broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:52:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She gives herself the chipped cup. Gaston is always on at her to throw it away, but Belle has grown to like the faded pattern of roses on the side, the feel of the chip against her tongue, sharp enough to cut if she allows it. Sometimes she does, to remind herself of the price of wilfulness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's love's illusions I recall

Belle’s fingers shake as she tries to fold her blouse. Joni Mitchell is still playing in the living room, her voice dark and warm as whiskey, but it cannot mask the ugly silence. Gaston has left, the front door still shuddering in its frame, but Belle strains to hear over her own desperate heartbeat in case he decides to come back.

Afternoon sunlight pours richly through the open window, and a summer breeze sends the white sheer curtains billowing. How often have they sprawled together on the bed, that warm little body tucked beneath her arm, pretending that they are on the deck of a pirate ship, a trader’s vessel, the first ship to feel uncharted waters against her hull, with the white gauze a fluttering sail?

“Mama?”

Belle can feel her composure crumpling. She bites her lip, blinks back the salt sting of tears, and tears a row of dresses from their hangers. She cannot trust her voice, not yet. Hermione fidgets restlessly on the carpet, her dolls in a row at her feet. Her hair is nearly black, like her father’s, but she has Belle’s curls, delicate whorls and spirals that gleam in the light. Her bare feet are dusty from playing in the yard behind their apartment block. She likes to climb the trees of the old apple orchard that Belle has grown to love, orderly lines grown untamed as nature overcomes the designs of man. Hermione loves to hide herself in the fork of the branches, amongst the leaves and the blossoms, and tell herself stories as she looks over the fence to other backyards, and beyond to the curve of the harbour, and beyond even that, to magical lands that only a child’s eyes could see.

There’s glass all through the kitchen. Hermione needs her shoes.

“We have to find your shoes, Hermione. Do … do you remember where you might have left them?”

Belle keeps moving, her fingers crumpling fabric as she attempts to squash her clothes into the old suitcase, hoping that Hermione hasn’t noticed the tremor in her voice.

Hermione frowns, and curls her toes into the fibres of the carpet. Her throat and arms are kissed brown by the sun.

“Mama-“

 

* * *

 

 “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not!” Belle protests, laughing and brushing away her tears as he tugs her onward.

“You are!” Rumford accuses, stopping and folding her to his chest. She tilts back her head and studies him, trying to sear every detail into her memory. He grins crookedly at her inspection, before his eyes darken and his gloves tighten around her waist.

“I love you,” he says with an intensity he brings to bear on such odd moments, as though he is afraid she might fade to smoke in his arms and be lost forever.

She tucks her arms around his neck and brings his face down to hers. There are snowflakes beginning to drift from the slate-grey sky.

“I love you too, Rum.” Belle says gently but firmly, making those words a promise, a vow, and he sighs and brings his mouth to hers.

They kiss deeply. Belle curls her fingers in his hair, her tongue darting out cheekily, and Rum growls in response, holding her closer.

They break apart finally, shivering but perfectly happy in the cold, and Rum curls his arm about Belle’s waist.

“What do you think?” He asks gently as they stand side by side, looking up at their house.

“It’s pink.” Belle giggles, and twines her fingers with his.

“Pink and perfect.  I can’t believe it’s ours! How did you do it, Rum? They swore they wouldn’t sell!”

He gestures theatrically with his free hand, a dangerous smirk playing about his lips.

“Magic, my dear. Magic, plain and-”

 

* * *

 

“It’s simple, Belle. It’s not that hard to understand. He’s run off and found some big-titted tart and he’s _not coming back_.”

Belle clenches her fists at her sides. She hates that her father can make her feel like this, reduce her to the role of the foolish, selfish child, standing in the middle of the kitchen under the weight of her parent’s disapproval, trying her hardest not to cry.

“He’s not like that, Pa. Rum wouldn’t do that to me. Something must have happened to him. “

“My God, girl! I thought I raised you to be intelligent. Men like that only want one thing-“

“ _Papa!”_

“-And now that you’ve given it to him, he’s got no more use for you. I bet he has a sweetheart in every town in this state!”

“He was going to find his _son_! He hasn’t seen him for over thirty years!”

“Jesus, Belle, can’t you see he’s making a fool out of you?”

“We bought a house together! He wouldn’t just …  he’s not like that, Pa! You never liked him anyway!”

“You were too good for him! Didn’t you think about how I felt, having to watch him parade around with you on his arm? Hearing all those rumours around town every time I stepped outside the house? Hearing people call you things like - like _slut_ and _whore_!”

“What? Why would they – did you think that about me, Papa? Did you think I was a … a _whore_ as well? Did you think he paid me?”

“Belle …”

“He loved me, Papa! He loved me and I loved him! I loved him! I … I _loved_ …“

“Oh Belle, sweetheart-“

 

* * *

 

 “I’m sorry.”

The man turns remarkably lightly, considering his cane, and sweeps her book off the ground, handing it back to Belle with a flourish.

“Oh no, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

She tucks a wayward curl behind her ear, attempting to brush the dirt off the cover of her novel. The gutters are full of fallen leaves and cold rainwater, and despite her efforts both Belle and the book are soon smeared with dirt.

“Allow me to assist you, my dear.” He says stiffly, moving closer, and he gives her a handkerchief with a neatly embroidered _RG_ in the corner. Belle looks up and meets his gaze. It’s dark, and distant, and completely filled with secrets she longs to learn the answers to. Swiftly, she looks away, reminding herself that this is _the_ Rumford Gold, pawn shop owner, landlord, recluse and rumoured millionaire, although she has always considered the last to be a clichéd piece of gossip spread by the town’s wives. Belle has seen his house, and it’s hardly a mansion. It’s barely larger than her fathers’, with an air of disrepair, and overgrown beds of dead roses that surround the house in a tangle of ugly thorns.

“Thank you,” she murmurs and ducks her head to hide her confusion as she passes him back the stained handkerchief. Her father often complains about Mr Gold, painting him as a Scrooge-like figure, cruel and heartless to those less fortunate, like a monster out of a fairy tale.  He doesn’t seem the type of man to stop and help someone who isn’t even watching where she’s going.

He gives her a thin smile and turns away, the cane lending his uneven gait an air of dignity. Thoughtfully, quietly, Belle watches him go. Privately she thinks he doesn’t seem so terrible-

 

* * *

 

“After all, Cinderella had nothing to go to the ball in but her rags. But luckily, her fairy godmother, who had watched over her since she was born, took pity of her and appeared before Cinderella. She was so surprised that she stopped crying. And her fairy godmother said-“

The doorbell buzzes harshly, and Belle groans, hoisting herself off the couch to answer it. She doesn’t bother to look through the spyhole, just tugs it open, and freezes, staring at the man on the other side. It’s Rumford, with an uneasy smile, leaning on his gold-topped cane in a stance so familiar it makes her ache.

“Hi,” he says quietly, and Belle grips the door until her knuckles turn white. She is utterly, horrifyingly aware of her belly, round and swollen like a melon before her. An instant later so is Rum, and the colour drains from his face. At the sight, Belle feels exhaustion seep into her bones. She isn’t ready for this conversation. Then again, she might never be.

She steers him, half-heartedly protesting, into the apartment and makes tea for them both. She gives herself the chipped cup. Gaston is always on at her to throw it away, but Belle has grown to like the faded pattern of roses on the side, the feel of the chip against her tongue, sharp enough to cut if she allows it. Sometimes she does, to remind herself of the price of wilfulness.

“How, um … how far along …” He gestures weakly at her stomach.

“Six months.”

There is a brief silence, where Rum can think of nothing to say and Belle sips at her tea, scalding and bitter. She attempts, with an effort, to be cheerful.

“So did you end up finding your son?”

“Oh, yes. Neal. Yes, I did. It would be … four years ago, now. He’s well.”

“That’s great! I’m so glad for you both.”

Another silence, this one more weighted, heavy with unspoken words. Then Rum tears his fingers distractedly through his hair and leans forward.

“Belle, I’m so sorry. I meant to come back after a few months, but everything got so complicated. And Neal was so angry at me, for a long time, and I deserved it, but I tried to come back. I wanted to come back. Do you … do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Belle says heavily. “Yes, I believe you.”

“But you married that awful man-“

“Rum, you were gone for six years. I was lonely, and I needed someone.”

“Yes, but _Gaston_? Belle, he doesn’t even _read_.”

Belle laughs at the horrified look on his face. They used to talk about the residents of Storybrooke as they sat in the diner, or walked around the harbour. Rum would do scathing impressions of the town’s more colourful characters, and Belle would regale him with Gaston’s latest endeavour to entice her away from him.

“Yes, well, he was willing to marry me. And he loved me for a long time. There weren’t many people willing to even look at me after you left.”

Rum’s face contorts.

“I’m so sorry-“

“Yes, I know. It’s okay. I understand.”

And what else can be said? Belle has been through bouts of rage and despair, all the shades of melancholy and sorrow. She has orchestrated this scene a thousand times in her head, imagining what she would say, a passionate outburst that would hurt him as much as he has wounded her, but now that it is here she only wishes that it would be over.

He leaves soon afterwards. There is nothing to say. Any words that would have helped are ten years in the grave. And yet, the way he looks at her as she closes the door, as though they will never see each other again …

She _wishes_ , for a moment, wishes it all undone, wishes so hard that for a moment her body shudders all over with the strength of it, and then Belle crumples, rocking herself back and forth against the unyielding wood, her hands cradling her unborn child, and as the tears come she sobs,

“ _I’m sorry, sweet one. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I want you. I want you. Stay here, little one. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m-_ “

 

* * *

 

“I’m fucking her, Belle, okay?”

The world slows, and she clutches hard at the counter to keep herself upright.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m fucking Regina.”

“Why … why would you do that?”

“You’re seriously asking me that? Christ, Belle, look at us. When’s the last time we had sex? When’s the last time you even looked at me?”

“Regina? Your _boss_?”

“Yeah, my boss. You met her at the last Christmas party.”

“You actually _touched_ that … that dead-eyed harpy? She’s a horrible woman! Don’t you remember how she treated my father?”

“It’s not Gina’s fault if your old man can’t keep up his rent-“

“Oh, so it’s _Gina_ now, is it? What about your daughter, Gaston? What about Hermione?”

He retreats for a moment in the face of her fury. How dare he treat them like this, Hermione loves him so much, with a fierceness that reminds her of Rum, always runs to the door when his key scrapes in the lock, loves spending time with him while he watches television and drinks, treasures every moment of casual affection he gives her, and he _dares_ to do this to her?

“How dare you! You bastard, _you bastard_ , how dare you do that to us!”

Belle pushes him hard, shoves him up against the fridge. Gaston staggers, caught off guard, but then his face twists into a grotesque mask of rage and he storms towards her.

“How do I dare? You selfish bitch, you never gave me the time of day! Always thinking about _him,_ I was always second best! This is your fault, Belle, don’t you try and blame it on me. The only whore around here is _you_.”

He lashes out, sending the glass vase on the kitchen counter spinning to the tiles. It explodes on impact, spraying glass everywhere, the roses inside shredded. It also sweeps her chipped teacup to the floor, and its delicate pink and white shards splinter into far too many pieces to ever salvage.

For a moment, Belle thinks that Gaston will hit her. For a moment, he seems to want to. But eventually he lowers his fist, a hand that once upon a time he would never have dreamed of raising in anger against her, and pushes past her so that she stumbles and steps on the glass. It doesn’t hurt at first, but as the door slams, and the echoes reverberate around her, her feet begin to sting from a dozen sharp and tiny cuts.

In the sudden silence, Hermione creeps around the corner and stops on the edge of the tiles.

“Mama?” She asks, and then hesitates.

“Careful,” Belle says automatically. “There’s glass everywhere, my darling. I wouldn’t want you to get-”

 

* * *

 

 “Mama was hurt,” Hermione tells the strange man, letting her legs swing free under the booth. She sips at her strawberry milkshake, and glances secretly at the blue stone in the ring on the man’s finger. He has a cane with a dragon on the head, all curled up, the gold worn away on the neck and shoulders from where his fingers have rested. The dragon’s eyes are tiny emeralds.

Hermione thinks the stranger might be a wizard.

“It wasn’t serious,” her mother says beside her. “I didn’t even need to go to the doctor.”

“He shouldn’t have said those things to you. Even just thinking about it, I could-“

He makes a violent gesture, and Belle frowns, capturing his hands under hers on the table.

“It’s okay, Rum. To tell the truth, I was expecting … something like that for a while now. We were only really tolerating each other, to be honest. We lost whatever it was we had.”

“Well, he doesn’t understand what he lost then, now does he? I know, and I regret it every day. So will he, in time.”

Her mother smiles, only a little one, but more than Hermione has seen in weeks. She regards them solemnly, hand in hand, her mother in blue like a princess, and the stranger in black. He has silver strands in his hair.

“Mama’s name is Belle. That means beautiful in French.” Hermione tells Mr Gold.

“I know.” He replies softly. “And yours means queen in Greek, I believe.”

“Yep.”

“Where are you living now?” He asks, and Hermione turns back to her milkshake, satisfied that the man is a wizard. Who else could know what her name means without even looking in the naming book?

“In a little apartment over the library. Hermione loves it there. We have piles of books everywhere. I’ve been looking for a job, but no one seems to be hiring at the moment. If I can’t find one, Hermione and I will have to leave Storybrooke and try San Francisco.”

“I hate San Francisco!” Hermione interrupts. “It’s all grey there. They don’t have any trees.” She informs Mr Gold and he frowns deeply, shaking his head.

“No trees, you say? That won’t do at all. But wait! I think I have the solution to your and your mama’s problem.”

“What?” Hermione cries, bouncing in her seat. “Is it magic?”

“Perhaps,” he says, but he winks at her, so she knows that it is real magic and that he’s just pretending it’s not for Mama’s sake. He spreads out his fingers, and then twirls them, and a key appears between his fingers.

“A magic key! What does it open?” Hermione cries.

“Let’s go and see,” Mr Gold says, and gives her and Mama an elegant hand down out of their booth, like a gentleman from a story.

They walk along the street together, stopping at every door, but the key won’t open them. Hermione runs ahead, skipping over the cracks in the pavement, and behind her she can hear scattered pieces of her mother and Mr Gold’s conversation.

“Rum, I can’t accept charity …”

“Please, just trust me, Belle, I won’t …”

And then Hermione turns the corner, and she sees the door the key will open.

“Mama! Here! Mr Gold!”

Mr Gold fits the key, and it turns smoothly. Hermione rushes inside, headlong into the smell of dust and cobwebs, darting between the shelves. Her hands fly out to brush the hundreds and hundreds of spines.

Belle stops on the threshold.

“Oh,” she whispers, and then laughs.

“A bookstore?” She asks, turning to him.

“What else?” He asks, and as Belle leans against his shoulder with a smile blooming on her rose petal lips, he lets his fingers twine in the end of her curls, and they both allow themselves a little hope.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Rumbelle Secret Santa on Tumblr, for afterbaedeker. Story title from Joni Mitchell's song 'Both Sides, Now'.


End file.
